As they come down from the peak of Stonetalon Mountain, Thrall is at a loss. The Horde’s young Warchief doesn’t know what to think. He’d gone to the Oracle with Cairne because he’d needed answers. It wasn’t enough to come to Kalimdor, he needed to know what his next steps were. In the end, the Oracle had turned out to be the very same Prophet who had pushed Thrall to lead his people to this new land in the first place. And he’d had the answers Thrall sought.
That didn’t make them any easier to stomach, however. Finding out that there was a demon invasion coming for not just their new lands, but the entire world? Thrall could barely wrap his head around it. Working with the humans and Lady Jaina Proudmoore was something that he could handle, but it would not be so easy for the rest of his Horde. Already there had been incidents between his and Lady Proudmoore’s forces. A troll not understanding human common and taking offense, or a human spitting in the face of an orc.
It hadn’t come to bloodshed just yet, but it was only a matter of time. And yet, the Prophet had been very clear. They needed to come together if they were to have even the slightest chance of defeating the Burning Legion. It was their destiny. All of that was a lot to handle by itself, but Thrall was not just some orc. He was Warchief of the Horde and he had stepped up to lead his people, one way or another.
However, the Prophet’s final words had haunted him ever since he’d had the misfortune of hearing them. Their next step was to go to Ashenvale… where the Warsong Clan had managed to make allies with the denizens of the forests there and was waiting for their arrival. Thrall had been surprised to hear that Grom had managed to set aside his bloodlust to try his hand at diplomacy at first… only for the Prophet to deliver the news that Grom was dead, killed in a Mak’gora, his position usurped by another member of the Warsong Clan.
It just didn’t make sense. Grom… dead? The last time they had seen each other, the old warrior had caused Thrall no end of problems. He had attacked the humans despite express orders not to and made everything ten times harder than it had to be. Thrall had had no other choice but to send him away, hoping that having him set up an encampment in the nearby forest would keep Grom occupied until the business at the peak could be finished.
Of course, he now knew that had been a mistake. The forest they were now traveling to was not as empty as Thrall had initially believed. Only after the fact had Cairne explained to him that there were… creatures in those woods. Immortal beings who the Tauren had long been aware of only tangentially. They were said to be as powerful as they were mysterious, and the Tauren had long kept their distance from those woods.
It couldn’t possibly be these creatures that the Warsong Clan had somehow made allies with… could it? Surely not. Thrall wasn’t sure what to believe, but he didn’t believe that. In fact, without Grom’s leadership, the young Warchief couldn’t imagine they would find the Warsong in an altogether stable state, regardless of the Prophet’s words.
The Prophet had coached Grom’s death in a positive light, acting as though it was a good thing. But while the mysterious Prophet had been right about quite a lot, Thrall didn’t think he was right about this. He did not know the orcs the way Thrall knew his people. He did not know the Warsong Clan as Thrall knew them.
Ultimately, Thrall had a strange churning in his gut. Something of a mix between anxiety and a sense of inevitability. When they reach the forest and the Warsong Clan, he expects to find that they’ve fallen to infighting. He can’t bring himself to picture a single orc among their number that could not only defeat Grom, but also prove strong enough to keep the Clan together after the fact.
In the midst of his inner thoughts, Thrall almost doesn’t notice Cairne’s presence until the Tauren Chieftain is right beside him. A hand falls upon his shoulder, causing the Orc Warchief to startle as he looks over.
“You are troubled, young Warchief. The spirits rage around you in turmoil. They sense your grief.”
Thrall grimaces at that, noticing the way their new ‘ally’ glances over at them upon hearing Cairne’s words. Jaina Proudmoore has been… a perfectly reasonable person since they left the Prophet’s cave. So far, anyways. Whether she would continue to be reasonable, whether any human could ever see orcs as people for long… would be found out soon enough.
Regardless, even though he’s aware that Lady Proudmoore is listening in, Thrall just sighs, not one for subterfuge or keeping secrets.
“The one that the Prophet spoke of… Grommash Hellscream. He was like a brother to me, Cairne. To find out that he’s dead, not even by our enemies but by the hands of one of our own… yes, I am grieving. I do not understand his death. I do not understand why a Mak’gora would even be necessary.”
Cairne hums at this, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment as he ponders Thrall’s words. Such is the Tauren Chieftain’s nature. He only speaks when it proves necessary. Jaina, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to interject.
“Mak’gora… those are your people’s version of an honor duel, yes?”
Thrall starts, a little surprised that she would know such a thing. He looks upon the human mage with fresh eyes, slowly nodding.
“Indeed. Mak’gora is one of our oldest customs, dating back to our original homeworld. It is exactly what you called it… a duel of honor. More often than not, a Mak’gora is used to decide leadership when all else has failed.”
Then, he peers closely at her.
“I am surprised you knew even that much, Lady Proudmoore. Where did you hear about Mak’gora?”
Jaina blinks, and then looks away, seeming a little sheepish.
“Ah… during my apprenticeship in Dalaran, the orcs were one of my fields of study. It all started when my master, Archmage Antonidas, had me do a paper on the lethargy of the orcs that were sequestered in the interment camps, to find out if it was magical in nature or not. That paper was actually what got me a proper apprenticeship under the Archmage, and I suppose it piqued my curiosity for orcish culture. There isn’t much in the way of books regarding your people and your customs, but what there was, I devoured quite eagerly.”
Thrall absorbs this for a moment before grunting and nodding.
“I see.”
It made sense that she would be a little ashamed of where her knowledge came from. Thrall had grown up a slave. He knew the condition of the humans’ interment camps first-hand. Still… he would not fault her for wanting to learn more about his people. If the other humans had had their way and succeeded in their slow genocide of his people, then those like Lady Proudmoore would have been the only ones to remember them after they were gone.
Before he can express such a sentiment, however, Cairne speaks up again.
“You blame yourself, Warchief. For the Mak’gora. Why is that?”
Of course. Trust Cairne to see right to the heart of the matter. Thrall grimaces once more, his face twisting up even harder this time as he lets out a low growl.
“Because it more than likely is my fault. Hellscream… I sent him away. He disobeyed my orders and attacked Lady Proudmoore’s forces, and I could not trust him to continue on with me to the peak. I did what I had to do by sending him to the forest. And yet… and yet, it was probably my rejection of his actions that led to the challenge. I weakened his position in the eyes of his clan. I dealt the blow to his reputation that no doubt resulted in the Mak’gora being called.”
Cairne hums at this, taking in Thrall’s words just as he did before. Jaina, meanwhile, looks somewhat pitying though she wisely holds her tongue. Thrall knows that there is almost certainly no love lost between Jaina and the departed Hellscream. One of his last acts among the living was to recklessly attack her people and needlessly kill who knew how many humans.
Still, even if Thrall recognizes Grom for all his faults and all his flaws… the older orc was still like a brother to him. And now he was gone.
Before any of them can speak, a troll runs up, panting heavily.
“Warchief Thrall! I be one of da Scouts ya sent forward to da forest! We found da Warsong Encampment… but it be weird, mon. Really weird.”
Thrall furrows his brow at that, glancing at Cairne and Jaina. It’s like a rock is sinking in his stomach. Weird how? Weird as in, torn apart by infighting weird? With a growl, Thrall hoists Doomhammer into the air.
“Press forward! We must move quickly!”
With that, he puts his own words into action, urging his wolf mount forward as Cairne and Jaina follow along behind him. The combined forces of Thrall’s Horde and Lady Proudmoore’s humans make their way faster down the road towards Ashenvale.
It doesn’t take long to crest the final ridge and finally lay eyes on the encampment himself at that pace. However, the moment he does… Thrall has to call for a halt, eyes staring uncomprehendingly at what he sees down below. As Cairne and Jaina come up on either side of him, Thrall growls.
“What is this? What am I looking at?”
He sees orcs milling about, and thus knows that they’ve arrived at the right spot. That is indeed the Warsong Clan down there. However, the encampment looks nothing like what Thrall would expect a permanent orcish encampment to look like. There are no walls and the buildings… the buildings, while large and structurally sound, don’t look like orcish buildings. There is a strange fluid nature to all of them, as though they were grown as they are, straight from the earth.
In fact, as Thrall’s eyes sweep across the encampment, he sees a few incredibly large trees have been turned into further structures. But rather than be carved open by woodcutter’s axes, they almost look as though they’ve been encouraged to open themselves, the bark and trunk expanding outwards before hollowing out.
But the strangest thing of all that Thrall sees is the knife-eared warrior women moving about down below right alongside orc grunts. There aren’t nearly as many of them as there are orcs, but that just makes the handful that ARE down there stand out all the more. As well, they are smiling and laughing and talking with the orcs of the Warsong Clan… the allies that the Prophet said the clan had managed to make.
“Thrall… those are Night Elf Sentinels.”
Cairne sounds almost as bewildered as Thrall feels. Indeed, the Tauren Chieftain sounds shocked. Jaina hums and asks the question Thrall himself is about to ask.
“Night Elf Sentinels? What are those exactly?”
“They are the keepers of these woods. They are the immortal beings I told the Warchief about. The majority of them have been alive for over ten thousand years, honing and training their skills all that time…”
Jaina’s eyes widen in shock at this information, even as Thrall’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t… looking down at the encampment, he can see absolutely nothing wrong with it. It far exceeds even his wildest expectations in fact. And yet… it does not have Grom in it. Hellscream is still dead. And Thrall is having a hard time reconciling the death of his adoptive brother with this… success.
Growling, Thrall begins moving forward again.
“Let us see what the Warsong Clan has gotten up to in my absence…”
As their procession begins to approach the camp, the orcs and their Night Elf friends finally start to notice them. There’s some shock among the Warsong Clan at the sight of Jaina and her humans, but when they see Thrall and his Horde alongside them, they relax a bit. Not entirely of course, they’re still very much tense as they stare at the humans.
Thrall, meanwhile, has no time nor patience for dealing with their animosity. He growls and lets out a loud roar.
“Warsong Clan! Where is your Chieftain?! I would have words with him!”
There’s some shuffling about at that. The sort of shuffling Thrall would expect from a bunch of orcs who thought he didn’t yet know that Hellscream was dead. No one wants to be the one to give him the bad news it would seem. Until finally…
“I am here, Warchief. Welcome to our camp. Welcome to Ashenvale Forest.”
Thrall’s eyes turn towards the one who has spoken… only to widen in disbelief as he finds himself staring at the one orc he never would have expected to challenge Grommash to a Mak’gora. Standing there with skin of a more brownish-green than Thrall’s… is Rognak. Rognak was no warrior. He was barely a fighter. He… no, Thrall clears his mind and tries to focus on what he knows.
He and Rognak had lived their lives in interesting parallels. They had both been born on Azeroth, and thus grew up here. They had both spent their initial years in the humans’ camps, enslaved to their bidding. However, unlike Thrall, Rognak had broken free much earlier. Also unlike Thrall, Rognak had not made much of his freedom. He had not gone on some grand crusade to unite their clans or free the rest of their people, as Thrall did.
Where Thrall had gone on to become the Warchief of the New Horde, Rognak had always seemed to be content playing with his connection to nature, growing plants and healing minor injuries among the Warsong Clan. Hell, he hadn’t even fought in the battles that Grom had forced upon his clan at Stonetalon.
Now though? Now the forest-green orc stands before Thrall with a spark of defiance in his eyes and Grommash’s axe Gorehowl on his back. The haft has been wrapped in vines, and the blade glows with strange green energy as its new owner waits for Thrall’s response to his presence.
It’s all but impossible for Thrall to reconcile the image he had of Rognak in his head all this time with the orc in front of him now. In the end… in the end, there’s really only one explanation that makes sense. Grom must have sought death for some reason. Perhaps because Thrall had lost faith in him or something. That’s the only way Thrall can imagine Rognak having even a chance of defeating the older orc in a Mak’gora. Grom had let Rognak kill him.
That’s honestly no easier to stomach than anything else has been, and Thrall struggles to find the words, gritting his teeth as Rognak stands before him, waiting.
In the end, neither of them speaks first. In the end, before Thrall can even open his mouth, the silence is broken by someone else entirely.
“Rognak? Is that truly you?”
Thrall’s head whips around at the same time that Rognak does, the Horde’s Warchief looking to his newest ally with abject surprise. At least the Warsong Clan’s new Chieftain seems just as shocked as he is that Jaina Proudmoore somehow knows his name and recognizes him. But then… what the hell is the story there? How does the human mage know Hellscream’s killer?
As they come down from the peak of Stonetalon Mountain, Thrall is at a loss. The Horde’s young Warchief doesn’t know what to think. He’d gone to the Oracle with Cairne because he’d needed answers. It wasn’t enough to come to Kalimdor, he needed to know what his next steps were. In the end, the Oracle had turned out to be the very same Prophet who had pushed Thrall to lead his people to this new land in the first place. And he’d had the answers Thrall sought.
That didn’t make them any easier to stomach, however. Finding out that there was a demon invasion coming for not just their new lands, but the entire world? Thrall could barely wrap his head around it. Working with the humans and Lady Jaina Proudmoore was something that he could handle, but it would not be so easy for the rest of his Horde. Already there had been incidents between his and Lady Proudmoore’s forces. A troll not understanding human common and taking offense, or a human spitting in the face of an orc.
It hadn’t come to bloodshed just yet, but it was only a matter of time. And yet, the Prophet had been very clear. They needed to come together if they were to have even the slightest chance of defeating the Burning Legion. It was their destiny. All of that was a lot to handle by itself, but Thrall was not just some orc. He was Warchief of the Horde and he had stepped up to lead his people, one way or another.
However, the Prophet’s final words had haunted him ever since he’d had the misfortune of hearing them. Their next step was to go to Ashenvale… where the Warsong Clan had managed to make allies with the denizens of the forests there and was waiting for their arrival. Thrall had been surprised to hear that Grom had managed to set aside his bloodlust to try his hand at diplomacy at first… only for the Prophet to deliver the news that Grom was dead, killed in a Mak’gora, his position usurped by another member of the Warsong Clan.
It just didn’t make sense. Grom… dead? The last time they had seen each other, the old warrior had caused Thrall no end of problems. He had attacked the humans despite express orders not to and made everything ten times harder than it had to be. Thrall had had no other choice but to send him away, hoping that having him set up an encampment in the nearby forest would keep Grom occupied until the business at the peak could be finished.
Of course, he now knew that had been a mistake. The forest they were now traveling to was not as empty as Thrall had initially believed. Only after the fact had Cairne explained to him that there were… creatures in those woods. Immortal beings who the Tauren had long been aware of only tangentially. They were said to be as powerful as they were mysterious, and the Tauren had long kept their distance from those woods.
It couldn’t possibly be these creatures that the Warsong Clan had somehow made allies with… could it? Surely not. Thrall wasn’t sure what to believe, but he didn’t believe that. In fact, without Grom’s leadership, the young Warchief couldn’t imagine they would find the Warsong in an altogether stable state, regardless of the Prophet’s words.
The Prophet had coached Grom’s death in a positive light, acting as though it was a good thing. But while the mysterious Prophet had been right about quite a lot, Thrall didn’t think he was right about this. He did not know the orcs the way Thrall knew his people. He did not know the Warsong Clan as Thrall knew them.
Ultimately, Thrall had a strange churning in his gut. Something of a mix between anxiety and a sense of inevitability. When they reach the forest and the Warsong Clan, he expects to find that they’ve fallen to infighting. He can’t bring himself to picture a single orc among their number that could not only defeat Grom, but also prove strong enough to keep the Clan together after the fact.
In the midst of his inner thoughts, Thrall almost doesn’t notice Cairne’s presence until the Tauren Chieftain is right beside him. A hand falls upon his shoulder, causing the Orc Warchief to startle as he looks over.
“You are troubled, young Warchief. The spirits rage around you in turmoil. They sense your grief.”
Thrall grimaces at that, noticing the way their new ‘ally’ glances over at them upon hearing Cairne’s words. Jaina Proudmoore has been… a perfectly reasonable person since they left the Prophet’s cave. So far, anyways. Whether she would continue to be reasonable, whether any human could ever see orcs as people for long… would be found out soon enough.
Regardless, even though he’s aware that Lady Proudmoore is listening in, Thrall just sighs, not one for subterfuge or keeping secrets.
“The one that the Prophet spoke of… Grommash Hellscream. He was like a brother to me, Cairne. To find out that he’s dead, not even by our enemies but by the hands of one of our own… yes, I am grieving. I do not understand his death. I do not understand why a Mak’gora would even be necessary.”
Cairne hums at this, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment as he ponders Thrall’s words. Such is the Tauren Chieftain’s nature. He only speaks when it proves necessary. Jaina, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to interject.
“Mak’gora… those are your people’s version of an honor duel, yes?”
Thrall starts, a little surprised that she would know such a thing. He looks upon the human mage with fresh eyes, slowly nodding.
“Indeed. Mak’gora is one of our oldest customs, dating back to our original homeworld. It is exactly what you called it… a duel of honor. More often than not, a Mak’gora is used to decide leadership when all else has failed.”
Then, he peers closely at her.
“I am surprised you knew even that much, Lady Proudmoore. Where did you hear about Mak’gora?”
Jaina blinks, and then looks away, seeming a little sheepish.
“Ah… during my apprenticeship in Dalaran, the orcs were one of my fields of study. It all started when my master, Archmage Antonidas, had me do a paper on the lethargy of the orcs that were sequestered in the interment camps, to find out if it was magical in nature or not. That paper was actually what got me a proper apprenticeship under the Archmage, and I suppose it piqued my curiosity for orcish culture. There isn’t much in the way of books regarding your people and your customs, but what there was, I devoured quite eagerly.”
Thrall absorbs this for a moment before grunting and nodding.
“I see.”
It made sense that she would be a little ashamed of where her knowledge came from. Thrall had grown up a slave. He knew the condition of the humans’ interment camps first-hand. Still… he would not fault her for wanting to learn more about his people. If the other humans had had their way and succeeded in their slow genocide of his people, then those like Lady Proudmoore would have been the only ones to remember them after they were gone.
Before he can express such a sentiment, however, Cairne speaks up again.
“You blame yourself, Warchief. For the Mak’gora. Why is that?”
Of course. Trust Cairne to see right to the heart of the matter. Thrall grimaces once more, his face twisting up even harder this time as he lets out a low growl.
“Because it more than likely is my fault. Hellscream… I sent him away. He disobeyed my orders and attacked Lady Proudmoore’s forces, and I could not trust him to continue on with me to the peak. I did what I had to do by sending him to the forest. And yet… and yet, it was probably my rejection of his actions that led to the challenge. I weakened his position in the eyes of his clan. I dealt the blow to his reputation that no doubt resulted in the Mak’gora being called.”
Cairne hums at this, taking in Thrall’s words just as he did before. Jaina, meanwhile, looks somewhat pitying though she wisely holds her tongue. Thrall knows that there is almost certainly no love lost between Jaina and the departed Hellscream. One of his last acts among the living was to recklessly attack her people and needlessly kill who knew how many humans.
Still, even if Thrall recognizes Grom for all his faults and all his flaws… the older orc was still like a brother to him. And now he was gone.
Before any of them can speak, a troll runs up, panting heavily.
“Warchief Thrall! I be one of da Scouts ya sent forward to da forest! We found da Warsong Encampment… but it be weird, mon. Really weird.”
Thrall furrows his brow at that, glancing at Cairne and Jaina. It’s like a rock is sinking in his stomach. Weird how? Weird as in, torn apart by infighting weird? With a growl, Thrall hoists Doomhammer into the air.
“Press forward! We must move quickly!”
With that, he puts his own words into action, urging his wolf mount forward as Cairne and Jaina follow along behind him. The combined forces of Thrall’s Horde and Lady Proudmoore’s humans make their way faster down the road towards Ashenvale.
It doesn’t take long to crest the final ridge and finally lay eyes on the encampment himself at that pace. However, the moment he does… Thrall has to call for a halt, eyes staring uncomprehendingly at what he sees down below. As Cairne and Jaina come up on either side of him, Thrall growls.
“What is this? What am I looking at?”
He sees orcs milling about, and thus knows that they’ve arrived at the right spot. That is indeed the Warsong Clan down there. However, the encampment looks nothing like what Thrall would expect a permanent orcish encampment to look like. There are no walls and the buildings… the buildings, while large and structurally sound, don’t look like orcish buildings. There is a strange fluid nature to all of them, as though they were grown as they are, straight from the earth.
In fact, as Thrall’s eyes sweep across the encampment, he sees a few incredibly large trees have been turned into further structures. But rather than be carved open by woodcutter’s axes, they almost look as though they’ve been encouraged to open themselves, the bark and trunk expanding outwards before hollowing out.
But the strangest thing of all that Thrall sees is the knife-eared warrior women moving about down below right alongside orc grunts. There aren’t nearly as many of them as there are orcs, but that just makes the handful that ARE down there stand out all the more. As well, they are smiling and laughing and talking with the orcs of the Warsong Clan… the allies that the Prophet said the clan had managed to make.
“Thrall… those are Night Elf Sentinels.”
Cairne sounds almost as bewildered as Thrall feels. Indeed, the Tauren Chieftain sounds shocked. Jaina hums and asks the question Thrall himself is about to ask.
“Night Elf Sentinels? What are those exactly?”
“They are the keepers of these woods. They are the immortal beings I told the Warchief about. The majority of them have been alive for over ten thousand years, honing and training their skills all that time…”
Jaina’s eyes widen in shock at this information, even as Thrall’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t… looking down at the encampment, he can see absolutely nothing wrong with it. It far exceeds even his wildest expectations in fact. And yet… it does not have Grom in it. Hellscream is still dead. And Thrall is having a hard time reconciling the death of his adoptive brother with this… success.
Growling, Thrall begins moving forward again.
“Let us see what the Warsong Clan has gotten up to in my absence…”
As their procession begins to approach the camp, the orcs and their Night Elf friends finally start to notice them. There’s some shock among the Warsong Clan at the sight of Jaina and her humans, but when they see Thrall and his Horde alongside them, they relax a bit. Not entirely of course, they’re still very much tense as they stare at the humans.
Thrall, meanwhile, has no time nor patience for dealing with their animosity. He growls and lets out a loud roar.
“Warsong Clan! Where is your Chieftain?! I would have words with him!”
There’s some shuffling about at that. The sort of shuffling Thrall would expect from a bunch of orcs who thought he didn’t yet know that Hellscream was dead. No one wants to be the one to give him the bad news it would seem. Until finally…
“I am here, Warchief. Welcome to our camp. Welcome to Ashenvale Forest.”
Thrall’s eyes turn towards the one who has spoken… only to widen in disbelief as he finds himself staring at the one orc he never would have expected to challenge Grommash to a Mak’gora. Standing there with skin of a more brownish-green than Thrall’s… is Rognak. Rognak was no warrior. He was barely a fighter. He… no, Thrall clears his mind and tries to focus on what he knows.
He and Rognak had lived their lives in interesting parallels. They had both been born on Azeroth, and thus grew up here. They had both spent their initial years in the humans’ camps, enslaved to their bidding. However, unlike Thrall, Rognak had broken free much earlier. Also unlike Thrall, Rognak had not made much of his freedom. He had not gone on some grand crusade to unite their clans or free the rest of their people, as Thrall did.
Where Thrall had gone on to become the Warchief of the New Horde, Rognak had always seemed to be content playing with his connection to nature, growing plants and healing minor injuries among the Warsong Clan. Hell, he hadn’t even fought in the battles that Grom had forced upon his clan at Stonetalon.
Now though? Now the forest-green orc stands before Thrall with a spark of defiance in his eyes and Grommash’s axe Gorehowl on his back. The haft has been wrapped in vines, and the blade glows with strange green energy as its new owner waits for Thrall’s response to his presence.
It’s all but impossible for Thrall to reconcile the image he had of Rognak in his head all this time with the orc in front of him now. In the end… in the end, there’s really only one explanation that makes sense. Grom must have sought death for some reason. Perhaps because Thrall had lost faith in him or something. That’s the only way Thrall can imagine Rognak having even a chance of defeating the older orc in a Mak’gora. Grom had let Rognak kill him.
That’s honestly no easier to stomach than anything else has been, and Thrall struggles to find the words, gritting his teeth as Rognak stands before him, waiting.
In the end, neither of them speaks first. In the end, before Thrall can even open his mouth, the silence is broken by someone else entirely.
“Rognak? Is that truly you?”
Thrall’s head whips around at the same time that Rognak does, the Horde’s Warchief looking to his newest ally with abject surprise. At least the Warsong Clan’s new Chieftain seems just as shocked as he is that Jaina Proudmoore somehow knows his name and recognizes him. But then… what the hell is the story there? How does the human mage know Hellscream’s killer?
